Starting Over
by Ancalime8301
Summary: John Watson has to find a new life for himself after being sent back to England to convalesce. Warnings: depression, suicidal ideation.


Wordcount: 3,485

Warnings: depression, suicidal ideation

Summary: John Watson has to find a new life for himself after being sent back to England to convalesce.

A/N: Draws upon ACD's A Study in Scarlet, but most of it is me just making stuff up.

Written for the shkinkmeme (on LiveJournal) prompt: _Depressed, lonely, suicidal Watson, and Holmes who is too caught up in a case or his own black moods & drugs to notice, until it's almost too late._

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_Starting Over_

John Watson was a non-entity. Little better than an invalid, sent to convalesce in England where he had no family, no friends, and very few acquaintances. What few acquaintances he had were in London, so to London he went. Assuming those he knew were still in town, for most of those he'd known at medical school had likely matriculated and moved on by now. He just hoped none of them followed his foolhardy footsteps into the service.

Meagre belongings in a nondescript hotel room, mealtimes and bedtime his only engagements, and at first that was enough. After a week, resting between meals no longer held the same appeal, the room felt stifling and lonely, and watching people in the hotel lobby wasn't interesting anymore. He took to haunting the streets, familiar and unfamiliar alike, in search of something, anything to entertain himself.

Except that. Anything but that. But, of course, he was irresistibly drawn to it. Everywhere he went he saw opportunities -an eye well-trained as his own would always spot them- and at length he relented and stopped in at a tavern far from his hotel. He hoped the distance would deter him from returning.

He couldn't afford it, he tried to tell himself even as he sat at the table and the first hand was dealt. Strangers greeted him like a friend, a round of drinks was bought, and there were no actual bets until evening; the daytime was for honest, innocent games of cards between friends. Or not so innocent, as each man took his opponent's measure, noting his tells for later, when the stakes were much higher.

His resistance lasted days longer than he expected, as he carefully made his escape before dinner and avoided the actual gambling. Until one day the alcohol had been flowing too freely, and an offer to buy him dinner if he'd stay seemed like a good deal -the fewer meals he had to buy himself, the longer his money would last. His mental arithmetic neglected to include the money he was sure to lose afterward, however, and that proved substantial.

He stumbled back to the hotel, relieved that he had paid for his room for the next week before leaving that morning, and resolved not to go back again.

And he didn't go back. Not to that tavern, at least, and not at first. For a time he distracted himself from the urge by visiting the library, though he had nothing to research, and rambling the grounds of the university in hopes of seeing someone he knew. He didn't.

The pull of false camaraderie won where the simple urge to gamble didn't, and he found his way to another place, another table, another game. The faces were different but the attitude of welcome and companionship was the same.

Sometimes he won, and he always wondered if they let him win so he'd stay a little longer and line their pockets with a little more. But that was a cruel thing to think of his new friends, and he stayed a little longer, almost always leaving more than a little poorer.

Day after day he went back, and once in a while he managed to leave with more than he'd had before. After those nights, he was careful to pay anything he owed the hotel and even pay in advance for what he could, for he knew his luck wouldn't last. It never did.

On a particularly disillusioned occasion, he sat and watched a game, realizing that these men meant nothing to him. They could have been anyone, so long as they played this particular role in his life. And he, in turn, was nobody to them. They wouldn't even notice if he stopped coming, unless it were to notice that his income was no longer ending up in their wallets, and even then, poor sops with bad luck were all too common. Another would fill his place.

He had no occupation to speak of, and was unlikely to return to his former one, as the Army was not likely to want a surgeon with a bad shoulder -it limited what procedures he could reliably perform. He could, in theory, enter private practice, but with limited funds and no friends to ask for a loan, he wouldn't be able to scrounge the money to purchase one. Especially not with the way his money slipped through his fingers like water when he gambled.

It was pointless. It was all pointless. What was the use of his existence, save to have his money end up in the hands of others? It was a cheerless life he lived, and he wondered -not for the first time- why he had survived both Maiwand and enteric fever.

Perhaps some time in the country would set him straight. There would be far fewer temptations to gamble, and puttering in a garden might give him some purpose. But he did not want to have to deal with hordes of travelers on holiday, and they were ubiquitous in all of the towns within the range of London that he could afford to travel. And there was a good chance he would feel just as lonely and isolated in a small town where he knew no one as he did in London, and in London his chances of meeting friendly folk were much better.

Sharing rooms, then. It would be a more reasonable cost than the hotel, and having a roommate was almost as good as having a friend. Perhaps a medical student would be willing to go halves on rooms near the university, and he could try to ease back into civilian medical circles that way. It was worth trying, at least.

He set out for the Criterion Bar to find out if the barkeep was still a fount of knowledge of who needed rooms, feeling almost optimistic for the first time in . . . well, a terribly long time.

By the end of the day his entire outlook improved considerably. It had been splendid to see young Stamford again, and the prospect of a new situation was quite welcome. And this Sherlock Holmes character . . . he was indeed a character, of that much he was certain. But his observation about Afghanistan after merely *looking* at him, now that was uncanny. Rooming with him would no doubt prove fascinating.

The exertion of moving even his few belongings and the anxiety of starting a new acquaintance proved too much for his constitution and he spent several days in a slightly feverish state. He found he was disinclined to attempt to venture anywhere for quite a while after, and devoted much of his energy to deciphering his new companion.

He proved unequal to the task, naturally, for Holmes was an utter mystery to most mortals, but Holmes was oddly forthcoming when he was of a mind to be. Following the revelation of his occupation with an invitation to join him in investigating a new case was astonishing, but Watson accepted gladly, for he did not have anything better to do.

The outing was enjoyable, the case itself quite illuminating, and he thought he understood why Holmes was drawn to this type of work. And what was more, he sincerely hoped to be asked along the next time.

He was. And the next, and the next, and the next, for months on end. Many of Holmes' clients never resulted in him budging from his armchair, but if one of their problems was thorny enough to require personal attention, Watson was invariably asked along.

Until he wasn't, and he rose one morning to find he'd been left behind. Holmes apologized when he finally returned late that night, pleading a need for haste and consideration for Watson's health -they had been busy of late and he was tired, that much was true- and Watson forgave him, never mind the worrying and fretting he'd done all day. Having been apparently abandoned in such a fashion was more than sufficient to reawaken his doubts and insecurities about being not a doctor, not a soldier, not anything useful.

They had a dry spell for a few weeks. Holmes wrapped himself in his lassitude, and Watson organized his notes from their initial cases, trying to ignore the fact that his nine months of convalescence were nearly up. Every day he dreaded the telegram that would announce the date and time of his appearance before the medical board to determine his fitness to continue service in the Army.

Holmes was dismissive of his worries, assuring him that the rent was not a concern if Watson had to re-enter the Army, and that he would be welcome to stay if he didn't.

Watson could not be so cavalier about it. He didn't know what he wanted to happen. He had studied so long and hard to become a doctor, and he would miss it terribly -already missed it terribly- if he were no longer to serve in that capacity. Yet the idea of being sent abroad again made him feel physically ill, regardless of the fact that the Afghan war was well over.

On the other hand, he got the impression that Holmes enjoyed his company during cases -either his company, or his admiration, or perhaps both. And he quite enjoyed going along. But Holmes didn't need a sycophant. His ego served the purpose quite well enough.

The feared telegram arrived, and Watson set out and pressed his uniform with trepidation. He found the interview to be as difficult as he feared, and left the room a retired army surgeon. As he was honourably discharged, he would receive a pension roughly equal to his current income, and he was free to seek medical attention at the army hospital for as long as he was in London.

In a daze, he made his way home and changed out of his uniform. It no longer felt right to wear it. He sat on his bed, head in his hands, as he tried to comprehend what would become of him now.

A doctor who was no longer really a doctor, for what use was the degree without having an avenue in which to practice medicine?

What was he, then?

He didn't know, and found himself cowering at the idea that his life no longer had a purpose.

Desperate for company and something else to think about, he went to the sitting room, but Holmes was nowhere to be found and his bedroom door was closed. Against his better judgment, Watson went out again, intending to either drown his sorrows or gamble them away. Or both, he wasn't fussy.

His pride was saved only by the fact that his wallet was almost empty at the outset. He still had far too much to drink, for somehow it had come out that he was a war veteran and recently discharged, and many wished to ensure his evening was a pleasant one. What little money he did have he lost at the billiard table, but couldn't feel too upset about it.

There was still no sign of Holmes when Watson staggered in and collapsed on the settee; when he woke in the late hours of the morning, nothing in the room had been disturbed. Holmes must be out, then, probably on another case without him. Of course.

Restlessness and irritation at the absence of his fellow lodger drove Watson to venture out again in the afternoon, intending to visit his bank to withdraw his half of the rent, due in two days, and some pocket money to replace what he'd lost. He successfully completed this errand, but was reluctant to return to the still and silent flat, and so decided to meander a while.

His wandering feet led him astray, straight to a boxing ring, and he mechanically placed his usual bet, randomly selecting which fighter to back. He lost. Of course.

Other temptations lurked in the shadows, games of cards and dice, and he was drawn in, helpless as a fish on a hook. Ale helped soothe his losses, and he drank greedily, dismissing any thought of the cost. It didn't matter anymore what he could and couldn't afford. Spending his money was the only thing he could do with himself, after all.

Then it was over, his pockets empty, and he was trudging home so he wouldn't be tempted to start gambling away his clothing. It was early yet, and he felt remarkably sober considering how much he had drunk.

The thought of having to come clean to Holmes and admit he'd lost his half of the rent was quite sobering.

But Holmes wasn't there, and Mrs. Hudson said he'd been called away by Lestrade only a few hours before.

He took refuge in his bedroom, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling as he wondered what was the point, anyway. Why did he even bother going through the motions? There was nothing left to make his life worth living.

Holmes said he enjoyed his company, then he went and disappeared for days at a time. The Army didn't want him anymore, after he'd gone and gotten himself injured and sick for the sake of the Army. No relatives, no friends, no one who cared whether he lived or died. Not even Holmes, who had already said he could handle the rent on his own now.

Gambling certainly wasn't worth living for, not with what it did to him, what it took from him. Gambling is why he ended up in the Army in the first place, not any sense of patriotism. Gambler turned soldier, that's what he was, and there were many more like him. That he was a doctor simply made them more willing to take him, take him and break him and toss him aside.

His mind whirling, he rose from the bed and paced, turning away from the sight of his uniform draped over the bureau. After a while it bothered him enough that he felt compelled to put it away; roughly gathering the fabric, he balled it up and moved to toss it into his trunk when his service revolver fell from its holster and landed at his feet.

Discarding the uniform was an afterthought as he stared at the gleaming metal. It wasn't loaded, of course, but he had ammunition in his drawer. So easy, so quick . . . an instant, and this miserable existence could be over.

He reverently placed the revolver on the bed and drew out the box of bullets, carefully choosing one before putting the box away. He only needed one.

As he loaded the gun, he remembered the mess he would leave if he did it here in his bedroom. He didn't want to make Mrs. Hudson have to clean that up. Go out again, go by the river, take the shot, fall right in, easy, quick . . . yes, that would do, and no one would have to clean up after him.

Fitting, for a doctor.

Watson had just slipped the revolver into his jacket pocket when he heard a commotion in the sitting room. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath; of course Holmes had to return just as he was about to leave. But would he allow that to stop him?

Then Holmes was calling his name. Repeatedly. And loudly. The banging on his bedroom door commenced a moment later. "What is it, Holmes?" he asked impatiently as he pulled the door open with some force.

Holmes overbalanced and nearly fell, supporting himself with a shoulder against the doorframe. "I find myself in need of a doctor, Watson."

"Then you'd best go elsewhere," he said blandly and tried to shut the door again.

A brief expression that Watson couldn't interpret crossed Holmes' face, then he shoved the door open with a hand and a foot. "Just because you have been discharged from the Army doesn't make you any less of a doctor. Now, are you going to help me, or shall I continue to bleed onto Mrs. Hudson's rug?"

"I haven't many supplies," Watson warned, turning to fetch his kit from the trunk. Holmes had slid to the floor by the time he turned around again. "What did you do to yourself?" he asked, kneeling next to him and cringing a little when the revolver in his pocket thudded against the floor.

Holmes must have heard it too, for his eyes went from Watson's face to his pocket and back again. Watson tried not to flush with shame under his gaze, and busied himself with trying to determine where Holmes was injured.

"Oh, I was caught at the wrong end of a knife, you know how it is," Holmes said dismissively, releasing his left arm from where it was awkwardly pressed against his abdomen and held it out to Watson.

Watson held his wrist gingerly as he brushed aside the damaged sleeve of his coat and shirt to see the damage; it was a nice gash up much his forearm, deep enough to bleed plentifully, but not serious. Put in some stitches, and it should heal with minimal scarring. He said as much to Holmes, who nodded and took his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt off while Watson rose to fetch his water pitcher and basin to clean it.

Silence settled over them while Watson worked quickly and efficiently; when he was finished, Holmes regarded his neatly bandaged arm with a small smile. "I was sorry not to have you along," he commented.

"I was out," Watson said shortly.

"Yes, I know, I heard you leave."

"You were here?"

Holmes nodded once, staring unseeingly at the door. "In my bedroom, indulging in one of my vices, I'm afraid. My dear fellow, if I have caused you any upset, I do apologize. You'll remember I warned you that I get in the dumps from time to time."

Yes, he did remember. He also knew that Holmes' apology was communicating something else, but he couldn't figure out what. Perhaps he was more drunk than he thought.

"I hope you'll consider assisting me on a more permanent basis, Doctor, now that the Army has no command over your time. Those notes of yours can be quite useful." Holmes glanced at him, watching his reaction.

"I'd be delighted," he said, not sounding convinced. "But please, don't call me Doctor. A doctor has a practice, or at least has patients, and I have neither."

"You have one patient," Holmes corrected, motioning with his bandaged arm. "And he is willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of being your only patient."

"Nonsense," Watson protested.

"Just this time, then. For startling you, and keeping you from wherever it was that you were planning to go."

"Nowhere important," Watson said with a sigh. "But I suppose I'll have to accept, this once. I lost my part of the rent."

"I suspected as much."

Watson glared at him, realizing the suggestion of payment was a ploy to make him feel better about losing the rent. "Is there anything else you've deduced about me?" he snapped.

"Yes," Holmes admitted softly, glancing again at Watson's pocket.

"Get out," Watson hissed, reaching to close the door while Holmes was still sitting in the doorway.

"Please don't, Watson," Holmes said, a note of pleading in his voice. He tried to stay in place to keep the door from closing, but Watson heaved his entire body weight against the door and managed to force it to latch. Holmes could hear Watson slide down the other side of the door and knew he would be listening. "So are you going to start writing up our cases, like you mentioned a while ago?"

"I don't know," he answered icily.

"But you will at least accompany me on cases? You'll be entitled to part of the payment, naturally, and combined with what you can save from your pension, I should think you'd be able to afford a practice in a few years. If that's what you'd like."

Watson let the suggestion sink in. That could conceivably work. And if he wrote up some of the cases and managed to get them published, that would be another bit of money he could earn -after sharing with Holmes, of course, since it's his brilliance that makes the cases worth writing about- and save.

It just might work.

It was a start, at least.

Patching up Holmes in the meantime would keep him in practice, and he could take a subscription for a medical journal or two to stay up-to-date. And since Holmes used the sitting room for his occupation, he wouldn't be able to object if Watson started taking a few patients, as well. Not yet, of course, but when he was closer to being able to afford a real practice.

Yes, perhaps he could make something of himself yet.

"Of course I'll go with you on cases."


End file.
